


Principles

by General_Button



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Angst, Comfort/Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin has very strict principles regarding his "gift". He doesn't tell normal people about him being a Sentinel, and most importantly, no one in MJN is to ever know about it—<i>especially</i> Douglas—until everything goes wrong one day, and suddenly they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Principles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longsnowmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=longsnowmoon).



> I know the spaces are fucked, but that I am not going back to edit that. If you'd like to help me out, feel free! This is a gift for the lovely longsnowmoon, whose ao3 handle I do not know, so I apologize. Don't look at me: I'm trash.

In the long history of the human race, there have always been sentinels. Not many; never many at one time, never more than one in any community at any one time. What they have been called over the years has also varied; watchman, guardian, even, sometimes, hunter, because there have been times when their ability to see or hear wary food animals has been all that stood between their tribe and starvation.

 

But then what was called civilisation evolved, and with it the urge to forget the 'primitive' skills that had once meant survival. Religious fervor had taken the place of superstition as people tried to understand the often-capricious forces of nature, the often-inexplicable ailments that affected some people while leaving others unaffected.

 

And, above all, fear, the fear of those who were different or seemed to be different, gripped the world.

 

What people could not understand, they turned to their priests to interpret; priests anxious to display a knowledge they did not have - for how could they, in a still-primitive civilization, really know more than the secular population - and equally anxious to increase their power base, spoke of evil spirits, demons, and gods who needed to be propitiated if they were not to wreak catastrophe on the human race.

 

Belief grew that 'different' meant 'evil', and the monotheistic religions adhered to that belief; many people, over the years, were accused of being witches.

 

Some had simply made enemies among their neighbours, who saw in an accusation of witchcraft a good way of ridding themselves of someone with whom they had a quarrel. Some were nothing more than old and suffering from dementia.

 

Some were simply left-handed. And some - the unwary who failed to keep secret the fact that they could hear more acutely than most, see further than most - were sentinels or part sentinels.

 

It was a wonder that the genes for heightened senses survived - but they did, probably as recessive, emerging only when two carriers of that recessive gene married and had children.

 

Foreword to _'Sentinels - Our Tribal Protectors'_ by Blair Sandburg

 

* * *

“Mr. Crieff, I’d like to thank you...”

 

“Captain. It- it’s Captain. Crieff. Or just Martin! If you’d, er...like-”

 

“Well then, Captain Crieff,” he interjected, raising his hand placatingly. His voice—the client’s, the man they had flown—shredded through the quiet of the cabin, surprisingly loud. Martin fought to hide his surprise. He certainly hadn’t felt as if he had shouted the words; nonetheless, his ears seemed to ring.

 

Someone’s whisper echoed loudly. Martin looked sharply at Arthur, the source of the loud whispering. He was talking with his mother, gesturing wildly towards the cabin doors. She frowned.

 

No one else noted that his voice was terribly loud.

 

He realised he had been staring. The client, and Arthur were looking at him with some form of worry.

 

Martin blinked. The blood pumped in his ears.

 

 _Thump thump, thump thump_.

 

It was like a waterfall, the sheer sound of it. It grew quickly, steadily. The sound of his own breath was loud, louder still, and he inhaled, holding his breath, but it was quickly drowned out by the waterfall of noise around him as Arthur’s voice rose, Carolyn’s sharp, words like daggers.

 

No, that wasn’t quite right. They weren’t shouting, but it sounded loud nonetheless. What the devil...

 

His nose was assaulted with smells that were so strong he could taste them. Arthur on his left stank of sweat. The client had recently devoured a few donuts; he nearly felt them on his tongue.

 

Martin fought to gag against the strength of Douglas’ cologne, Carolyn’s perfume, and Arthur’s...smell (likely forgot his deodorant again).

 

His vision sharpened, blurring and focusing. He could see everything in perfect detail, to the very threads of the client’s coat. He _saw_ so much that he had to close his eyes for a moment to adjust.

 

There were worried voices now; someone’s hand touched his shoulder. Brief relief, the touch, and then it was moved. It reminded him that his clothing felt incredibly restricting, the fabric scratching him like a tiny needle brushing along his skin.

 

The voices that surrounded him were too loud; and the stink of Carolyn’s perfume was turned up to dangerous levels. Someone was calling his name, he was sure, but it was drowned out by the sounds bombarding him, as if every smell every sound every _taste_ of the world wanted a piece of him.

 

Martin felt himself sway, fingers clenched into a fist, white with tension— _too much too much_ —as his brain processed the sudden influx of sheer information. While his mind could be overwhelming, especially due to his nature, it had never quite been like this before. Not for a long, long time.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something shimmer, beautiful and blue, and his eyes followed it.

 

He caught and stared at the glimmering object. It was a pinwheel. Martin was almost certain it was the pinwheel the client’s son had been carrying. Caught by the sun somehow it was flashing aluminum lights in his eyes.

 

But that didn’t make any sense, considering he was at least ten feet away and it barely peeked out from under the seat. They were in a plane, for God’s sake!

 

The voices around him, insistent now. It felt like they were _screaming_.

 

_Too much. Too much. It hurts._

 

“The- the pinwheel,” he managed to stutter. Martin felt his focus slip and then zoom, the boxes in his mind collapsing into a heap, before he slid into the darkness.

* * *

 

“Martin!”

 

Loud. Her voice was too _loud_.

 

“Caitlin! Go away.” He could only manage a whisper, the rasping of his throat quiet over the sounds of the birds and the wind. All of it, all of it was too much—

 

“Martin, what the hell-,” she caught herself, remembering how their mother reacted to swearing, “-heck are you on about? Mum says it’s time for dinner.”

 

Martin whimpered pathetically as her voice rose to shrieking heights. “Stop shouting, please!” he cried, his own head throbbing. Looking at the ground, the flowers, made him feel sick. The sun was too bright. He had to- had to-

 

“Martin!”

 

 _Stop, stop. Please, your voice_. He covered his ears, moaning freely, collapsed against the grass. It made his skin itch. His entire body was itching. God, he couldn’t _stand_ it.

 

Caitlin continued to call out his name, bending down next to him worriedly now, but he cried out when she pressed a hand to his shoulder.

 

 _Wrong. Bad. WRONG_.

 

“Martin! MARTIN!”

 

He passed out.

 

* * *

 

“The rash had spread all over his skin; look at it! The doctor’s can’t even touch him without him throwing a fit.”

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

“I...I don’t know. Poor Martin...did this have to happen now? With Gran visiting...”

 

His skin was on fire. Everything hurt. Everything _itched_. Martin moaned pitifully and buried his face in the pillow, extracting himself almost immediately; the fabric made his skin pulse in sensation. The light from the hallway filtered in, but his room was dark. When he had started screaming that everything was ‘too bright’, the lights had quickly been doused.

 

The voices, which had been in the other room, blessedly faded as they moved into the kitchen. Martin could still feel the murmur of their voices, soft and comforting now that it didn’t feel as though his eardrums would burst.

 

_How am I doing this? Why is this happening to me? I can hear them... I can smell the sweat in my own bed. Why is this happening?!_

 

Footsteps sounded and the voices grew louder. Martin covered his ears.

 

“...not responding to any of us. If we talk above a whisper, he groans and cries.” He was glad his mother sounded worried; at first she had merely sounded annoyed, and then when he was sobbing into his pillow, his skin red with irritant, she began to take him seriously.

 

Their voices were barely whispers, but he could hear them as clearly as if they had been right next to him. Martin was naked, unable to bear the weight of clothing, his skin lotioned with the softest oils, but he still remained in his state. No medicines worked, if he could even force them down; the smell made him gag alone.

 

Voices faded and Martin fell into an uneasy sleep, the softest blanket they had resting over his lower half.

 

He woke smelling bacon and his grandmother. Gran’s scent had never- she had never _had_ a scent. But he remembered it as her, filling his nose and reminding him of a happier time. He buried his face into the cooler part of the pillow, wishing he could stop feeling. Even with earplugs in, he could still hear them.

 

The thirteen year old boy began to cry again, wondering what in the world was wrong with him.

 

At length, footsteps began to approach. Multiple ones. He could tell with certainty that  the heavier set was his father; the light, skittish pair his mother; and the uneven, soft steps his Gran. The footsteps stopped and someone opened the door fully. Martin kept his eyes closed, knowing he couldn’t bear to open them; experience told him it would hurt.

 

His grandmother’s soft voice flitted right into his ear; he could practically hear her bones creaking. His mother whispered a harsh warning and Martin realised she was approaching him.

 

He tensed automatically, waiting for the pain, but when her hand pressed gently over the hair on his head Martin gasped in bliss. Suddenly the pain was less. He opened his eyes wide, but the doorway’s bright light made him whimper and turn.

 

“Hush, dear. I know exactly what’s happening to you, don’t worry.” When she heard his sniffles turn to sobs, she gently stroked his curly head, feeling pity for the boy. “You’re safe now,” she whispered.  

 

“What’s wrong with me?” he rasped.

 

She smiled. “Nothing, my boy. Nothing at all.”

 

* * *

 

“Concentrate!”

 

“I am!” Martin grit out. He heard his grandmother harumph and he mentally flinched. He hated being a “self-centered brat” around his Gran, but sometimes it was so difficult with all of this Sentinel business.

 

Yep, Martin Crieff was officially a Sentinel. Possibly the worst thing in history. Gran claimed that it was a rare gift, but it didn’t feel like one. _Existing_ hurt, and it had taken nearly a week for the full-scale body rash to calm down.

 

As soon as Gran had touched him, Martin latched onto her, whimpering and blubbering thank you’s into her arm. The sweet relief had been so great he wanted to hug her and never let go.

 

Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

 

His grandmother, Ruth Crieff, was a Guide. They could apparently “ground” Sentinels, and eventually form some sort of bond, which sounded like bollocks to him. Gran would get angry if he said that out loud. When they were touching, she could sometimes sense the turn of his thoughts.

 

_“It’s someone with at least a small compatibility with the Sentinel. He can help ground the Sentinel’s senses and also shield him. In return, the Sentinel grounds and shields the Guide from some of the side effects of being an empath...”_

 

Martin didn’t want a Guide. He didn’t want to be a Sentinel. He hated this.

 

 _“A Sentinel has a sensory awareness that can be developed beyond normal human range. They came into existence millennia ago to protect the tribe. Sentinels have all_ five _of their senses enhanced. Although it doesn’t feel like it now, Martin, it is a gift. A very rare and special talent that allows you to comprehend things beyond normal range once you learn to control it.”_

 

Gift. Right.

 

“Martin! Stop daydreaming and focus. Tell me, what do you see; what do you smell?”

 

Martin concentrated on his senses of sight and smell, allowing the world to expand around him, casting his soul. “The- the grass. Trees... a dog shit—”

 

“Martin, don’t be crass.”

 

“ _Pooped_ somewhere in the forest. I can focus on the spot but I can’t see it. I can see...”

 

“You’re letting your sight go further than your smell. You can’t do that. They must work together or you’ll never have the proper control.”

 

Control, control. That was all she ever said! Martin couldn’t find any control since this entire had begun; nothing was working. It had been weeks since he presented, but he just couldn’t seem to get it. He had headaches and sometimes he would wake and everything hurt all over again. How was he supposed to gain control?

 

“I’m sorry!” Martin shouted explosively as his concentration fell.

 

It would take time, Gran said. It would come, she said.

 

It wouldn’t come! Martin was a failure now, and he would be a failure later. Caitlin sure thought so. “I can’t do it! I just can’t.”

 

Ruth was used to his temper tantrums. It didn’t help that while his family was supportive, they were obviously annoyed by his special needs—and the fact that their grandmother had to stay with them for much longer than she would have otherwise.

 

She wasn’t the most...gentle of people.

 

But she had her moments. “Martin, come here.”

 

He did, sniffling and wiping away stray tears that had escaped. He hated this.

 

Ruth could see that.

 

“I wish I could say I’m sorry, dear boy, but I’m not.” She took him by the shoulders, eyes soft, imploring. “This is a gift. One day you will see that, Martin. You’ll find yourself a guide and you will be grateful.”

“I’m not grateful now. It’s inconvenient. Why couldn’t this happen to Caitlin or Simon? All of this Sentinel stuff is rubbish.” He kicked at a bit of nothing.

 

Ruth chuckled and ran her fingers through his generous curls, her free hand squeezing his shoulder. “Because fate and God work in mysterious ways.” She then looked past him, made a thoughtful sound, and patted Martin’s chest, offering a withered smile.

 

“How about we relax for today? Invite Caitlin and Simon—your mum and da if they have time, and have lunch.”

Martin’s smile was tentatively relieved. “All right. I’ll- I’ll go get them.” He was happy for any distraction from his usual practice. Today he didn’t have a headache, though!

* * *

Eventually Martin moved on. As the year passed by, Ruth left, to their family’s great satisfaction, and he practiced alone. By sixteen, he thought he was doing very well. He had no guide, didn’t _need_ a guide, and he was fine. Everything was perfectly, totally, fine.

Sometimes it got to be too much, or he zoned out, which was when something caught one of his senses’ attention and he sort of...well, it felt like falling. He would stand there, totally out of it, and no one could seem to wake him. Sometimes they could last for hours.

But he was fine. He learned to tell when something would make him zone and he could control it. He _could_.

If he couldn’t control this, he didn’t know what he would do.

* * *

 

School wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

 

Oh, the sights and the smells sometimes made him gag, but at its worst, Martin thought of something Gran had told him. She said to imagine putting whatever sense was bothering him into a box. Focus; focus until it _hurt_ , and then wrap it up quickly, tightly, and put it in the back of the closet in his mind. Pack the boxes so tightly that they could never come out.

 

Martin utilised this skill on many occasions.

 

“Hey, Martin!”

He stopped. Ugh, one of those kids again. They always wanted him to _do_ things for them, like smell out where their dog had shit or use his sight to play games. Sometimes, in class, they would use him to cheat off of other’s tests. He _hated_ cheating, but Martin feared that if he didn’t do it, the irritating companionship would fizzle out and instead of using him for their games, it might be something worse.

“Heya, carrot-top, hey.” Martin was fairly sure his name was Jim. Or James. Either one; didn’t really matter. They probably wanted to ask if he could see through walls. Again.

It was hard going to a school full of pricks.

 

“Me and the others—we were wondering if you wanted to come around and hang out for a bit. We have something cool to show you.”

Martin followed along like the good little dog he was, curious but apprehensive at the same time. Things could easily be overwhelming for him, and his…friends knew that, but that didn’t mean they took it into regard.

When they arrived, a few boys were staring at a carcass. Martin’s nose wrinkled and his mouth twisted with disgust at both the sight and the stench. He could see something crawling in the exposed bones and flesh; he could see everything, really.

“What…why are you showing me this? That’s so disgusting.” They didn’t seem disturbed by the smell too terribly, but as he grew closer Martin had to cover nose _and_ mouth.

The boys grinned at him, all innocence and cheer. “We thought you might be able to tell us what it is. Its bones have been picked so we can’t tell.” A fresh round of children’s cackles, though he hadn’t the faintest idea why it was funny. Martin was trying not to let his stomach roll at the sight. His senses rippled from him, catching far too much, too easily.

                                                                                               

He tried to play along, at least. “It’s…”  He shook his head. “I don’t know! Why would I know? I can see things, but I can’t see…what, do you think I can see its ghost?!”

He sounded more panicked than he intended.

 _Hanging out_. Right.

“Come on, try getting a little closer.”

“Why the h-hell,” he always stuttered through his curse words, “ would I do that? Gross!” Someone’s hand was on his back when he tried to step away.

“You want to be our friend, right?” said a smooth voice (as smooth as a child’s could be).

Well, he didn’t want to be _their_ friend, but he wanted to have friends in general. No one liked an outcast, and Martin was determined not to be that person.

“Just do it, Martin!” another urged.

He shook his head, the smell too much for the sake of friendship, but he was pushed forward anyway. Stumbling, he nearly collided with the damn thing. Fingers wrapped around his wrists and he struggled, whimpering now, but they continue to push and push.

It was only inevitable that he would fall.

Martin tried to block his senses like he had been taught and collect them in a little box, but in a real life situation, with horror and disgust clinging to his very bones, it was a lot harder than it seemed.

Bile rose in his throat as the stench overwhelmed him. He felt like he was inches from the thing; he could feel its hairy, slimy body parts oozing against his cheek. Voices faded—including his own—and wild shouts of terror slipped past unopened ears.

After a few moments Martin vomited.

“Ew! Gross!” He heard various exclamations of disgust as the other children scrambled away from him, letting him pitch forward and almost stumble into the mess.

Martin gagged for a few minutes longer, tears steadily making their way down his cheeks. He sniffled and wiped his mouth, choking from the taste and smell of it.

He had to focus. Just focus…

“...wish he would have informed me of this.”

A clicking sound, likely someone’s tongue striking the roof of their mouth.

“It would have been useful to know! What if something like this happened on a very important flight? Why, that boy...”

Martin groaned at the strength of their voices. Even though they were whispering, it grated on his ears. He pressed his hands over them, finding earplugs already in place.

 

Earplugs were not as effective as official Sentinel brand plugs, but it was obvious that someone had been paying attention.

 

The conversation in the other room came in waves and sent sparks straight into his head, bringing with it pain and more suffering.

 

_How did I lose control like that?_

 

A better question would be _why_ had he lost control.

 

Martin took out one of the earplugs (earbuds, he noticed. Possibly Arthur’s) and tried to get a good look at his surrounds, which was useless once he realised there was a piece of fabric over his eyes. He touched the makeshift blindfold. If nothing else, it reassured him a little bit that they knew what he was—it would seem—and there wouldn’t be any explaining to do.

Voices rose again.

Oh, why couldn’t he just be normal like everyone else? Why was he given this “gift”; all it signified to Martin was torture. It had _never_ helped him.

Well, there were singular events, but none great enough to make up for what he had gone through to keep control of his senses _and_ his self.

Martin groaned and turned, hissing as the sheets rubbed against his irritated skin. He didn’t need to be able to see to know that it would be red and splotchy. Wonderful.

 

“Martin, are you awake?” came Arthur’s voice. His stage-whisper was dreadful.

 

Martin whimpered and covered his ears, shaking his head. “I’m asleep,” he whispered back, grateful beyond belief when Arthur took the hint.

 

Only more footsteps came by and soon there were three bodies in the room – definitely three bodies. He wasn’t sure who was whom exactly, but he thought Carolyn was the spicy scent. The banana nutmeg was definitely Arthur.

 

That left Douglas as the smoky, sultry smell. A bit like fresh bread, maybe with a few spices buried in its warmth. Like chamomile and the comforts of his tiny home. Martin turned and sniffed at the air.

 

“Good. You’re awake. Martin, I presume you know what happened to you.” Oh, yes. Carolyn was definitely angry.

 

“I know,” Martin answered pitifully, his voice a tiny whisper. He wasn’t even sure Carolyn heard him until she started speaking again.

 

“You must know that this is a serious violation of your contract. You _lied_ to me about this, Martin.”

His lips twisted with self-hatred.

 _I handled it_ , he thought. _I’ve always handled it_.

“What if you had been flying a cross-wind or an engine had failed and a bit of lint caught your eye?”

“Carolyn,” Douglas said calmly, pressing a hand onto her shoulder. He couldn’t see it, but he knew; he could hear it. “Don’t accidentally overwhelm him.”

He could practically hear the grinding of Carolyn’s razor sharp teeth.

“Overwhelm him! I’m the one overwhelmed. One of my only pilots has gone and got himself incapacitated.”

“Sorry,” Martin heard himself say miserably. “I- I’ve always handled it.” His head hurt. God, it ached. He itched. Where was he, anyway?

“I just need a bit of ti-time to…to reorient myself. I promise I can handle it—“

“Calm down, Skip, really. Mum’s trying to _help_.”

“Martin, you know we can’t—“

“Please.” His mouth felt sluggish, each word sending another spike of pain towards the building headache. “Please don’t fire me Carolyn. I- I promise it’s never like this. I have control. I’ll do better. I will do anything. _I have control_.”

Martin sounded desperate, choking on his own words. His own voice made his ears ring.

Douglas’ scent filled his nose and he felt him come closer. A heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Martin inhaled and instantly went still. It wasn’t that Douglas’ hand had hurt, as it should have, but that suddenly everything was…better.

His body was rigid, as if any movement might make the feeling disappear forever.

“Douglas. You’re- you’re a—“

“Guide, I’m aware, you great pillock.”

Before Martin could answer with indignation, Carolyn interrupted.

“Yes. And that is actually in Douglas’ contract. I knew about him. Guides are known to be much more stable and he had no reason to hide it. Martin—and don’t you dare interrupt this time—I can understand why you would want to hide this, but I can’t just look the other way. Not this time.” He heard her cross her arms.

“Oh, mum!” Martin hissed at the strength of Arthur’s voice. God, he could project. “You’re not really firing Martin, are you?! His gift is useful! Why it’s- it’s brilliant!”

“Arthur, calm yourself. Shouting will not help Martin’s case – nor will it help Martin.”

Martin’s fingers were digging into Douglas’ arm. He could feel the effect that his touch had on him already—shields had been put up and the agony receded. Everything wasn’t fixed by any means, but any sort of relief was something worth the humiliation of clinging to his first officer.

“I suppose I’m the canary, then?” Douglas murmured over Arthur’s exclamations.

“What?” He couldn’t blame Martin for sounding hysteric. What the hell was he talking about?

 

“You know the saying, Martin. The cat caught the canary—“

 

“I- I bloody well know the saying! As if _you_ could be an innocent canary—“

 

“Boys,” Carolyn interrupted with a hiss. “Arthur, shut up. I’m not firing Martin.”

 

“You’re not?” Martin didn’t dare hope.

 

“Heavens, no. Not yet, anyway. Who else will I get to work for your wage?” He was silent. “Now, you obviously cannot go back to work yet, and while this is a setback, I _do_ have an idea.”

“Great,” Martin rasped. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

“I wanted you to beg for a bit. You get this funny look on your face.”

 

“That’s rather bold of you,” Douglas interrupted. “Making advances on your employee? Why I never would have thought--”

 

“Oh shut up, Douglas. Now Martin, we’ve actually found you a Guide who’s currently single and willing to…help you get back on your feet, so to speak.”

 

Martin had a sinking feeling he knew who it was.

 

“In fact, he occupies this very room.”

 

Douglas’ hand tightened on his shoulder and Martin groaned.

 

"So, here we are."

 

“So we are.”

 

Martin crossed his arms and stared straight ahead. He was at _Douglas’_ house now, of all places.

 

He didn’t want to be, of course. Why would he want _Douglas’_ help? Sure, they were friends, but sometimes he felt…well, it didn’t matter. He knew Douglas would tease and berate him the entire time; how was he supposed to learn anything from him?

 

_“Carolyn! Douglas- why him?”_

 

_“Excuse me.”_

 

 _“Don’t pretend like you did this out of kindness. You can’t_ wait _to tease me and watch me fail at something other than word games.”_

 

 _“While that is very true, I hasten to say that perhaps you should think about your predicament. Who else might you find that can help you on such short notice? And for_ free _.”_

 

Martin really had no other choice: Douglas was the best candidate.

 

“At a cross-roads, are we? Planning to be stubborn the entire time with my hand resting on your knee?”

 

Indeed, Douglas needed to have contact with Martin. The world threatened to overwhelm him when his shield was no longer there to protect him, encircling his mind like a comforting blanket made of the softest fleece.

 

Martin had no idea why it was happening. It was really, really annoying. He couldn’t remember the last time he was troubled by anything. Martin didn’t need a Guide. He didn’t need Douglas.

 

“First thing’s first; let’s figure out why this happened so we can fix it. I’m not going to insult you by saying you’re inexperienced; even I couldn’t tell you were a Sentinel.”

Martin felt himself flush with a bit of pride. He really had fooled Douglas, hadn’t he?

 

Unfortunately, those days were over.

 

“Well?”

 

Martin frowned, thinking it over. He really hadn’t any idea why it stopped working. ‘It’ being control over his abilities.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, miserably. “It just happened. I was talking to the client and everything just…collapsed.”

 

Douglas’ eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Collapsed. What an interesting use of words.”

 

“How so,” Martin raised suspiciously. “It’s not an uncommon phrase.”

 

“Hmm,” he hummed contemplatively. “Go on.”

 

“There’s nothing on which to ‘go’. That’s it. I became like this.”  Douglas’ hand had moved from his knee, a bit warm, and Martin decided rather than awkwardly find a place, he would just cradle his hand. There was nothing weird about it; he was creating a shield. They weren’t bonded or- or anything like that. He just needed the contact. Technically they _would_ bond the longer they stuck to this—a _real_ bond, not friendship like they had, and wouldn’t that be something. Douglas bonding with someone like Martin: a failure who couldn’t even rope his own Guide like everyone expected.

 

But that could easily be broken by the time he was better.

 

“So you felt as if you metaphorically collapsed, thus bringing on your literal collapse. Interesting…”

 

“What?”

 

“I was just thinking—pondering why you might use that word. _Collapse_.”

 

“It’s a…word?”

 

“A very distinct word. One might think of one’s senses as leaving them, as dramatic novels always claim. _Have you taken leave of your senses?_ _Are you mad?_ ”

 

Martin’s frown deepened, the space between his eyes developing that adorable crinkle Douglas loved to admire.

 

“I don’t follow.”

 

Douglas studied him. “What I mean is: when you reign in your senses, how do you do it? Most people choose something that grounds him or her.”

 

Martin nodded, slightly restless at the idea of revealing just how he did things, but he supposed there was no harm. “So that’s that you meant when you insisted on that word. It’s….well, I imagine boxes. One box, I suppose.” He could feel his face beginning to heat as Douglas stared at him. “I imagine collecting whatever is—sight, smell; you get it—and then putting it into a box. Then I tape it up tight and then shove it in the cupboard.”

 

He grinned. “Shove it into the proverbial closet?”

 

“Yes. Yeah, not the best, maybe, but it worked for me. For a very long time! I just, I don’t know why it’s stopped.”

 

They were quiet for some moments, and as awkward as it was, Martin really only had Douglas’ hand to look at. He ran his thumb over the coarse skin, calloused from a life well lived. He could pinpoint exactly where he held the controls on GERTI.

 

“Do you suppose,” Douglas mentioned eventually, “that it just got worn out? That way of doing things?”

 

“How do you mean.”

 

“You said it yourself. You have all these boxes and the boxes collapsed. Now, while we may look at this as a failure, I think the object of your end goal should be changed.” Douglas licked his lips, attempting to say it gently. “You need a Guide.”

 

“Ha! No, I don’t.”

 

“But you do, Martin,” Douglas said, equally as gentle. Too gently. Martin’s lips twisted and he let out another harsh laugh.

 

“I’m not some weak, senseless thing. I may need you at this moment, but once I’m better, I will no longer require this.” He shook their hands. “So help me figure this out rather than suggest something ridiculous.”

 

Douglas sighed.

* * *

 

Douglas was a spectacular Guide by his own standards. Martin was an equally stubborn and, quite frankly, _spectacular_ Sentinel. While his shielding abilities could reign in the most erratic of frequencies, he didn’t think he could survive without someone for over twenty years.

 

A misconception was that most Guides didn’t need companions. A Guide without a Sentinel could feel just as lost, and without purpose the various flares from unbound or independent Sentinels could prove a mild irritant. Unbound Guides felt too much.

 

Douglas Richardson did not _need_ a companion, per se, but he did like to have someone around. It made him feel helpful and filled him with that usual sense of pride for a job well done.

 

Martin was quite draining in his own idiotic way. Douglas’ shields had to work harder than he was used to; not since Helena. She had been meeker with only sight and taste as her extreme senses, and while she had her moments, even her zones never proved a problem. Martin, however, was like a newborn giraffe trying to find its legs—and failing. All five of his senses were enhanced; he was a “true” Sentinel.

 

When Douglas had to use the bathroom, he oft came back to Martin, who was wincing, his face pale as he sought relief from the torture of his senses being cast out much further than he wanted. Douglas wasn’t certain how the man managed to use the bathroom without curling up into a ball, but he would rather not think about it. It was less amusing than he had originally thought.

 

Martin wasn’t meant to be helpless. Situationally, it happened at a frequent rate. However; Martin would never allow anyone to believe he was helpless. He kept fighting.

 

This pale version of himself was more rattling than Douglas would like to admit.

 

“How about we work on that control of yours. I was thinking a hearing test.”         

 

“All right. Where are we going to do it?”

 

“In my kitchen.” Douglas pulled at Martin’s hand and dragged him into the kitchen. “You can watch me cook. Better than staring at the birds, yes? You can even eat. Fancy that.” He smiled at Martin who returned it rather tentatively.

 

“Er, food sounds good. Haven’t eaten since—well, you know.”

 

That meant that he would have to let him go. Douglas certainly couldn’t cook with one hand. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean…” Martin trailed off.

 

Douglas smiled encouragingly and pulled out one of those sleeping masks Martin had never bothered to wear.

 

“A mask. A real one, this time. Rather than that makeshift cloth from before. Here; put it on. And now these plugs…and the nose plug as well. Then you can stand, if you would prefer not to touch things.”

Martin decided to stand, rigid in the middle of the kitchen, and listened. It was painful. Even with the earplugs Douglas gave him, he could still hear extremely well. He tried his usual box imagery, but he couldn’t seem to “collect” anything. It all slipped away the moment he tried to grasp anything.

 

A loud sound jarred him from his reverie; Martin gasped.

 

“Sorry. Slipped.” Martin felt Douglas breeze past him with the pot or pan or whatever, and took a tentative step back, feeling rather too close to his current companion.

 

“It’s fine.” Martin swallowed and stayed in place, trying not to sway—which only made it harder, the more he thought about it. Douglas kept being busy, pulling out things and setting them down.

 

“Tell me what you hear. This is an exercise and it won’t work if you just stand there blindly. While you’re doing that, try to find that control again. Think about…” he searched for inspiration. “Imagine your mind is like a like an oven, and you can’t let the heat escape or nothing will cook.”

 

Martin worked his jaw, trying to remember the sounds he had heard. Douglas lightly tapped the…pan on the counter. “A pan,” he began, already remembering what his gran had told him. “I could tell it was a pan because the sound is smaller and higher—less round. If that makes sense.”

 

“You’re doing wonderfully. Keep it up. Focus on control.”

 

The praise sent a rush of warmth through Martin. It wasn’t often Douglas was kind—although he was rarely mean, just teasing—and Martin lapped up the praise.

 

“Salt. Or pepper. Or some kind of spice; I don’t know.”

 

“Good.” Rather than prompt him again, perhaps sensing the frustrated tone of his companion, Douglas continued to cook as soundlessly as possible, although, by the look on his face, he was doing his best against the onslaught of sound.

 

That was Martin, right there; doing his best despite the circumstances. He could be covered in goose droppings and carrying a smelly stuffed sheep in the rain and he still managed to carry a stiff upper lip. Once again Douglas wondered what it was like in Martin’s funny little brain. It was worth contemplation; he had grown fond of his captain (and these days he managed to think of him in that way _without_ the irony), often leading to moments of apprehension and concern. And other moments, which he tried not to think about.

 

It still managed to shock him that his friend had been a Sentinel this entire time. Without a Guide.

 

After a few more minutes, and now that the chicken was sizzling, Douglas glanced at Martin. His face was pinched and he looked to be in immense pain. Douglas focused on wrapping his mind around Martin, but only experienced Guides could do it without a strong bond, or a particularly strong Guide. Douglas was not weak, but he and Martin were not in tune. Still, he thought it was worth a shot.

 

“Martin, how’s the oven?”

 

“The heat’s escaping,” he grit out. Douglas moved as quietly as possible and placed a hand on his shoulder, waiting until Martin had relaxed to move again.

 

“All right. Let’s start from the top, shall we?”

The next few days were uneventful. Martin worked on reigning in his senses rather than projecting them, but it was a hard road. Like a newly awakened coma patient, Martin had to learn to walk and talk in the language of Guides and Sentinels, but his progress was much faster than that of a newborn Sentinel.

 

Still, every time Douglas tried to approach the matter of finding a Guide, Martin’s own shields would flicker more than usual, like he wanted to reign in everything he felt and prove that he didn’t _need_ anyone and he would snap at Douglas for mentioning it. It was obviously something that needed to be addressed, but Martin had always been stubborn.

 

Douglas didn’t mind the company, in any case. Martin could stay as long as he needed to get back on his feet, though a Guide would have been helpful.

“Good job. Are you tired yet?”

 

Douglas was playing the piano. It was the perfect tool to fluctuate between loud and soft, training Martin’s shields and testing how he held up when it was unpredictable yet constant.

 

“Fine.” Martin’s lie was obvious. He had his head in his hands, resting on a soft, downy pillow that Douglas’ daughter had adored when she was younger. He appeared almost as young in this lighting, his face framed with tired lines of a youth wasted on the worries of adulthood.

 

Douglas did not ask again. He played well past the moment Martin began to find it painful, and only when he finally asked him to stop did he. Martin was blinking owlishly by that point, having buried the undersides of his wrists into his eye sockets. Douglas took his hands and rubbed his thumb over the red splotches where he had pressed them too hard against his skin.

 

“You’re doing well. Don’t look so down.”

 

“No, I’m not.” Martin’s voice rose with desperation. “I should be flying already!” Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and Douglas, who had yet to see Martin confront the frustration of being held down by his gifts, wondered if he would actually cry. “I hate this so much. I can’t- I can’t do anything. I need a Guide who doesn’t even _like_ me hovering over his shoulder while I try to hold my own against a _piano_.”

The silence stretched on while Douglas tried not to take it personally. “Martin.” Disappointment honeyed his words. “You can’t seriously believe that. We’ve had our differences—“

 

“Don’t, Douglas.” His voice cracked, but he remained strong. “Don’t act like you _chose_ this. I know that I’m a useless Sentinel. I can barely manage to get dressed on my own.”

 

“But you have. You’re getting better.” Douglas patted his shoulder, knowing Martin wouldn’t accept anything more. “You’ve come far. It’s only been over a week. Most people would take months.” Douglas was often reminded that Martin was not most people.

 

“Am I?” Martin asked, sounding both despairing and hopeful at the same time. “Carolyn might as well fire me. I’ll never be able to fly at this rate.”

 

Douglas could practically feel Martin’s impatience. They didn’t have that kind of bond (yet), but anyone with eyes could see that Martin was fast falling into, if not depression, a hole that would quickly swallow him.

 

Douglas clicked his tongue and pulled Martin’s slumping shoulders into their upright position “Listen to me, Martin. I haven’t given up my time and energy, as fading as that is,” the jab at his age made Martin’s face pinch, “just to see you fail. And you won’t. I’m surprised you haven’t given up once or twice and decided to go to those Sentinel rehabilitation centers instead.”

 

Martin could have chosen to do that, but that would cost time and money that his insurance (if he had any) and his job couldn’t pay for. He could have taken a loan to pay for it, but then he would have to give it time to be either accepted or denied, find a suitable Guide, _and_ wait for a clean bill of health before even thinking of returning to MJN. As it stood, Carolyn or he could technically agree Martin was fine to fly at any moment.

 

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Just like that, Martin’s face shuttered and he raised his chin in a way that was reminiscent of when he didn’t get his way during a flight, or lost the cheese tray. “God, here I am complaining while you give up precious time to help me. Sorry, Douglas.”

 

It appeared that he had made a mistake with his wording. Martin was no longer looking at him and the set of his shoulders was akin to that of a kicked puppy.

“No, no, don’t apologise. I didn’t mean—“

“Please, let it go. Let’s just…get back to work. I want to be flying by Tuesday.” Martin ran a hand through his hair and smiled, but it was more like a grimace.

“Fine, have it your way Ronald McDonald.”  That got him a real smile. Guiding Martin by the shoulder, they returned to the kitchen.

 

The first time Martin zoned out came to them both by surprise. It had yet to happen, but it was only inevitable. When all of his senses were going haywire, anything that caught his eyes, ears, or nose could potentially catch him. It was the simplest of things that did it; the toaster oven.

 

Douglas was a man of old fashion. He liked his nice, shiny toaster oven as opposed to the microwave oven. He hadn’t had the chance to use it yet in front of Martin, so it came to them both as a surprise when it went off.

Martin was enjoying the relative silence. He stared at Douglas as he cooked, tapping his fingertips against the blessedly cool granite tabletop. He let his mind wander; to Douglas, mostly. He thought of what his life had become now that Douglas had an important part in it. He thought of what that might mean for the future. But mostly, he thought about him in ways he really shouldn’t.

 

Douglas was so sure of himself. He wasn’t a thin man, for sure, but his thick fingers moved with dexterity that Martin envied. His eyes trailed down the strong set of his shoulders, to his plump middle. Martin had always envied those who had more meat on them. He was too skinny; too lanky. Not enough to hold onto. Douglas had more than enough. He was attractively plump. What he wouldn’t give to grab him and—

Before Martin’s own thought process could horrify him, the loud clang of the toaster oven finishing its round sounded. He jumped in surprise as the sound echoed inside his head, louder and louder, doubling in volume and shattering into white static before he, too, fell.

 

Douglas was humming lightly to himself when Martin went into his zone. He grabbed the toast and jam at the same time, fishing for the butter blindly to his right while he arranged the edibles. “What would you like first? Butter? There are some who would mix it, but I think that’s rubbish. Are you sure jam won’t be too much for your first taste alone?”

 

He received no answer. After a few moments Douglas thought Martin might just be busy thinking. Martin had much to think about, after all.

 

More time went by in the quiet, and when he glanced back casually, his heart nearly dropped out of his chest.

 

Martin’s eyes were vacant in a way that was achingly familiar with Sentinels. Douglas realised belatedly that the toaster oven must have set him off, and now it was up to him to set it right. He set the condiments down and raced to his side, careful about touching him. He just needed to bring him back from the deep; easy. His only concern was that it had been far too long since he had someone who looked quite so deep.

 

“Martin, can you hear me? Well of course you can, technically.” Douglas gently placed a hand on Martin’s cheek. “I need you to listen to me. Focus on my voice.”

 

Martin’s lips were parted slightly, his eyes staring unfocused at nothing. “Martin. You’re in my flat. Douglas Richardson. Do you remember the address? I told it to you once but I bet you memorised it. Arthur still can’t remember.” He smiled to himself and smoothed a hand over Martin’s unruly hair.

 

He looked so vulnerable like this, wrapped in his own head. All of his guards were down and his senses had closed off in a way that hadn’t happened in a long while. Douglas was lucky it was hearing that had affected Martin; much easier to get to him that way.

 

“Come on, Martin. I know how stubborn you are. It’s why I gave myself this job.”

 

At that, something flickered in Martin’s expression. His eyes seem to swivel, betraying basic consciousness.

 

"That's right. I volunteered to watch over your skinny arse. Carolyn didn’t want to risk another one of her pilots, but I convinced her. Herc has done a few runs by himself, you know. Not strictly legal, but when have we ever been?”

 

He kept talking to Martin, encouraging him softly until he finally focused on Douglas, snapping out of it like someone who had wandered into a room and couldn’t remember why. “There you are,” he teased.

 

“Douglas?” Martin croaked. He blinked wildly and then his face erupted in colour. “Douglas! Oh God, don’t tell me what I think happened, happened.” Douglas pulled away carefully, stepping back to give Martin some space, who self-consciously rubbed his cheek.

 

“It did, didn’t it?” He blushed. “You must think I’m an idiot. Zoning out like that…”

 

“Au contraire, mon ami,” said Douglas in a luxuriously false accent. “I expected it would happen at some point. Frankly, I was shocked you hadn’t gone under when we first began. Your focus must have just been a bit off.”

 

Martin groaned and Douglas smirked.

 

“Come on, you’re all right. Any damage done? You are an _alarming_ shade of red.”

 

“I’m fine,” Martin snapped, trying to force himself to regain his complexion. He remembered Douglas saying something. What had he been talking about? Something about taking care of Martin, or—oh!

 

“Douglas, did you mean what you said?”

 

“I say a lot of things,” he replied evasively. “Many of them important. Brilliant, as Arthur would say. I couldn’t possibly recall them all.”

 

Martin rubbed his eyes carefully, focusing on his control as he reigned in the sense of touch. More or less.

 

“Did you mean that? When you said that you suggested this. I thought Carolyn had put you up to it. I mean, why-why would you want to help me?”

 

Douglas turned his head away. “Why indeed.” He sounded hurt.

 

Martin mentally slapped himself. “I didn’t mean...you’re my friend, Douglas. My- my best friend.” It was true, he realised. All these years with MJN, and despite their teasing and prodding, Douglas had always been there for him. Even when he was a jerk. “Friends just aren’t usually so willing to help.”

“I disagree.” He turned fully now, toast in hand, and set it down in front of Martin before placing a hand between Martin’s shoulder blades. His hand was warm and steady. Martin fought to blush. “You must have had some rubbish friends if none of them were willing to help.”

 

“Well,” Martin began, contemplatively. “It’s not that they aren’t willing to help, but this is a bit more than help. No one wants to deal with this—with problems like these,” he rushed to say. “People like me, we’re just a nuisance. That’s why they have nice, shiny centers that help us. So we’re out of the way.”

 

Martin studied his hands, fearing that perhaps he had said too much. Douglas’ hand on his back pressed against him more firmly.

 

“Martin, you can’t honestly believe that. Sentinels are extremely useful in medicine, the military; anything you could think of, really. Don’t doubt yourself.”

 

“Exactly, Douglas! Useful. But I’m not that anymore. I’m a broken toy; a lame pony that can’t stand up on its own anymore.”

 

Depression was a common factor with Sentinels or Guides that had been alone for too long, or had trouble like this, but Douglas was determined to keep Martin’s upper lip stiff.

 

“You know _that’s_ rubbish. Now you’re just fishing for pity. Come on; eat and then we’ll see about a shower.”

 

That was the most difficult aspect so far. They had had him bathe, previously, and Martin hid, flushed, under the bubbles, but he wanted to try the more intense showering experience. Douglas wasn’t sure how well it would work, but they would test it out and see.

 

Martin nodded and took a bite of his toast. Douglas was thinking chicken for dinner.

* * *

Martin improved by leaps and bound over the course of the next month.  Douglas had assumed that Martin would want to speed things up, but the actual fact was almost frightening. Martin was going to drive himself to exhaustion at this rate. Scratch that, he already was.

 

Douglas could barely keep up with his constant need to _keep going_.

“Martin, I’m aware that you want to get better—and you have, by leaps and bounds—but at this rate you’ll just tire yourself out,” Douglas remarked as he watched Martin concentrate on casting his sight as far as possible, pupils blown wide. His eyes were watering.

“I can only see the poodle lady’s mailbox. I could see more last week!” He was beginning to sound desperate, so it was up to Douglas to calm him down.

 

Over their time together they had grown quite close, not only as two bond-capable pairs could, but also as friends. And as much as he cared about Martin, truth be told, he really didn’t feel like dealing with his self-destructive behaviour. While he was happy to lend his helping hand, he may have to call it quits for both of them.

 

“Why don’t we eat instead?” Douglas suggested, gently tugging on his arm to break his focus. Martin yanked himself free in reaction, and in what looked like a fit of frustration, he slammed his fist against the table next to him, nearly sending the lamp flying.

 

“O-oh God, Douglas, I’m sorry.” Immediately his expression melted into shame and concern as Douglas righted the lamp. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just—“

 

“Frustrated, I gathered. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a tantrum.” He wasn’t shocked. Douglas went to work, came home, worked with Martin, and the routine began again. It hadto have been aggravating. As irritating as it was to see him in a strop, Douglas could never stay mad when Martin looked like a kicked puppy.

 

“I know I keep repeating it, but I just _wish_ things could magically be fixed. Sitting here in will-I-ever-get-better limbo isn’t good enough.” Martin slid down in his seat and sighed loudly. Douglas resisted the urge to follow up with his own.

 

“You _are_ getting better. But,” he held up a hand when Martin opened his mouth to speak, “because of this need to improve, I think you’re making it worse.”

 

“How could I be any worse than I already am?” Martin muttered, mostly to himself.

 

“That attitude there won’t get you anywhere. I think I know what you need.” He felt a little guilty for what he was about to say, knowing the hope in Martin’s eyes would immediately be dashed. He hated to need help. “You need a Guide.”

 

As expected, Martin scowled. “No. Under no circumstances will I pledge myself to some- some _stranger_ just because you lot think you’re the ‘bee’s knees’.”

 

“Out of the entire population I think you’re the only one who would use that phrase who’s under sixty.“

 

Martin scowled. “Well it’s true, isn’t it! Guides always think they’re the best out of anyone with gifts. Guides this, Guides that. As if Sentinels require them.” He crossed his arms tight against his chest. “We don’t need your help; if anything, it’s you that needs us.”

 

“Perhaps. But I think we should attempt it. I’ve made a few calls over the past few weeks—”

 

“ _What_? Who have you been talking to? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

 

“Because I knew you would react like this,” Douglas said testily. Why Martin couldn’t just accept the help when it was offered to him, Douglas would never understand.

 

“Then you shouldn’t have called anyone! What, are you going to try and bring a Guide here and force me to bond?”

 

“I would never! The implication and the fact that you don’t trust me hurts.” He sounded sarcastic, but there was an underlying tone of truth that Martin missed.

 

“Oh, screw you,” Martin spat. “Guides, all of you. I can’t believe— no, I can believe it. Why can’t you just leave me alone for one second? I’m trying and trying and you keep hovering!”

 

Douglas rounded on Martin, pointing a finger at him. “Well excuse me for doing my job. I could have just left you alone and refused to help. Normal people are _paid_ for this sort of thing.” Something cruel rested on his tongue, and despite his better judgement, he let it out. “Not that you would know about that.”

 

“How—” Martin’s face began to turn an ugly shade of red, his fingers tight on the fabric of the sofa. “I don’t need you; I don’t anyone. This was a mistake; I should have just given up instead of hoping that something good might come out of working with _you_.”  

 

“Maybe if someone wasn’t so bloody stubborn, we wouldn’t be sitting here for months at a time trying to get you to try and smell a few things without passing out.”

 

Martin was already standing, moving for the stairs. His face was pinched with what was probably the pain of his senses, and he swept past Douglas without a word. He was probably going to pack. Something made Douglas reach out and grab his arm.

 

“Let me go! I’m done talking with you.” He didn’t relent, now taking Martin’s other wrist into his hand.

 

“We could talk like civilized adults if you would just let me help you!”

 

“You’ve done plenty! Now fuck. Off.”

 

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Martin was supposed to accept his help, get better, and stroke Douglas’ ego. They weren’t meant to bicker and argue.

 

A touch would calm Martin’s senses, but his current erratic behavior was actually making it harder for him to keep himself under control. Martin was sweating freely, looking panicked as he yanked his arms backwards. So Douglas did something spectacularly stupid in his panic to make things right.

 

He started to force his shield onto Martin, working harder than he had in a long time to encompass his entire being.

 

Martin’s eyes were wide as he froze, before his struggling began anew. “Stop it Douglas, stop! You don’t force yourself on people! Let me go.” He was now purposefully sending his senses haywire in an attempt to dislodge Douglas.

 

“Why won’t you let me help you? Just give me one _real_ reason.”

 

“I don’t know!” he shouted.

 

Tears had sprung into Martin’s eyes, and they dripped down his cheeks. The rapidly changing sensations must have been giving him a monster of a headache.

 

“I don’t know. Please.” He tugged weakly at his arms, which Douglas released with mounting horror. “I don’t know why I’m so useless. I suppose God decided he needed someone to fuck with occasionally.”

 

For a moment Douglas could only stare. Then it hit him. Staggering back, he stared at his own hands. “Martin. Oh god. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.”

 

Martin wasn’t listening anymore. He slid to the floor, head buried in his palms. A sob escaped Martin and Douglas realised that he was still crying. His shoulders were shaking. He’d probably feel dreadful if Douglas didn’t do something about it; however, he didn’t. He no longer had the right.

 

So Douglas fled.

* * *

Life for the two of them continued on in its usual measure. Douglas avoided Martin, and Martin avoided Douglas. He could tell the captain was continually practicing because the moment he managed to look at him, Martin appeared more exhausted with every passing day. Douglas had attempted a truce mere hours before, but Martin was still giving him the silent treatment.

 

Douglas attempted to generate forgiveness at various intervals, but Martin was consistently stubborn. Whenever something didn’t go his way, he was very likely to get that special twinkle in his eye that did not bode well for anyone who was in the vicinity.

 

He wasn’t sure it was possible to feel this guilty for this long. Even his wives, who could argue to be the most affected by his behavior, had never made him feel so helpless. They left on good terms.

 

The way things were going with Martin, it felt as though they would not. He worried occasionally that Martin would one day realize he could leave at any moment, find a better job, and slip right out of his fingers.

 

It was beginning to become tiresome. Actually, scratch that—Douglas was already exhausted by the entire affair. He didn’t have the time to play this child’s game. He needed to confront Martin; and if that didn’t work, he needed to apologize again somehow.

 

He tried something simple, tentatively beginning at dinner that night. “Martin, would you please pass the salt?”

 

Martin seemed to contemplate something before deciding he would deign to answer Douglas. “I don’t know, why don’t you just force me to?”

 

Douglas glared at him, his sympathy flying out the window. He was about finished with his little act. “You know I didn’t mean it.  I was frustrated, as were you! Martin, I’ve said I was sorry a thousand times; please, will you give me a break from your stubborn behavior?”

 

Rather than huff and puff like an ineffective dragon, Martin slumped in his seat and laid his cheek onto the cool surface of the counter. The energy seemed to leave him. He was about as done with the situation as Douglas was.

 

“I know you were...I know you’re sorry. I just can’t— I can’t do this, Douglas. I don’t understand what’s going on anymore. I’ve been thinking about it, ever since what happened that night.”

 

Strange, how it was referred as ‘that night’; the unspeakable between them.

 

“I think it’s really time for me to go. I want to leave.”

 

Well, that had taken a drastic turn. Now guilty all over again, Douglas hesitantly reached over and pressed his hand to Martin’s back; when he wasn’t immediately thrown off, he began to rub in smooth circles. He didn’t attempt to shield him, but he hoped his touch as at least calming, to some extent.

 

“Martin, you don’t need to leave! I know being a Sentinel _or_ a Guide is frightening at best, but you _will_ get better.”

 

Martin raised his head, shaking off Douglas’ hand. “It’s not just that! I’m useless, taking up space; eating your food and making your own a uninhabitable place. I’m- I’m just tired of living like this. Maybe I should find another job. Something easy that doesn’t really deal with people...or anything.”

 

To say Douglas was shocked would be an understatement. “You’re not serious, Martin. You love flying! Don’t joke about something like that.”

 

“It’s not a joke!” Martin cried, exasperated. “You can’t pretend like you haven’t been annoyed with me this entire time. I’m bloody useless, Douglas. I can’t do what I used to do, and I don’t know if I ever will.” He put his face in his hands, breathing hard. “I just want to go back to how it was before this ever happened.”

 

Douglas didn’t try to reason with him on that front. Instead, he switched to a different tactic, contemplating the merit of revealing something too personal when they had only just made some sort of breakthrough.

 

“Martin, I am going to say this one time only. Probably never again, as a matter of fact.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You’re the most extraordinary Sentinel I’ve ever met.” Martin’s head snapped up, eyes going very wide. “And what you’ve achieved up to this point is remarkable. But, every now and then, it wouldn’t hurt you to listen to your body.”

 

Giving in to his sentimentality, Douglas took Martin’s hands into his own to keep him from pulling back or running away. “Please.”

 

It was the first time Douglas had said please and sounded so sincere. Martin’s heart fluttered. “I— what? What do you want from me? I can’t—”

 

“Remember what I was trying to say earlier? I tried to get you to let me to help because you were wearing yourself—and me, to some extent—thin. I want to help,” Douglas interrupted smoothly. “Seeing you burn out like this does neither of us any good. You need to let someone in. Even if it’s someone you find years later. Just open up to the possibility. Life shouldn’t include this prospect of isolation. Sentinels and Guides are meant to help each other.”

 

Martin swallowed, understanding the severity of the situation. Douglas wasn’t joking; he wasn’t being sardonic or snide or cruel. He wanted to help Martin.

 

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, crushed by his own weakness. _Stupid, stupid boy. Can’t even manage to get help when you need it_.

 

He really was as useless as anyone had ever claimed him to be. It would be impossible to get back to work, and even if he did, he’d be stuck an emotional, sensitive—literally—wreck. Martin felt tears pool at the corners of his eyes and blinked away the emotion.

 

“Martin. Don’t look like that,” Douglas said. “You’re anything but weak. I believe—I know you can do anything you set your mind to. But you have to learn to accept help.” After a moment of hesitation, he ventured to say, “let me in.”

 

The thing was, Martin was telling the truth. He didn’t know how to let people help him. After years of being alone, he had absolutely no idea. He shoved Douglas’ hands away, ignoring how they continued to tingle afterwards. He hadn’t touched someone like that in...so long. Even before the breakdown of his senses. It reminded him of something even more important; another reason to keep Douglas at arms length. Martin’s fingers curled into a fist.

 

“I can’t,” he whispered. Not when he felt like this. Not when every day with Douglas made it harder and harder because he was so _kind_ and patient and that only made Martin fall harder.

 

“Why not?” Douglas was beginning to feel panicked, which was a very bad sign. He was meant to be the steady hand; the voice of reason. He couldn’t get emotional over one Sentinel because he’d suddenly started to matter more than he had intended. Much more.

 

It was in the way that Martin looked when he thought no one was looking. That no matter how many times he lost, he would always get back up and try again. That he was the most interesting and emotionally fulfilling relationship Douglas had had in years. And Martin had no idea of any of it.

 

“You remember when you told me about the boxes. How it no longer worked for you,” Douglas began. He could feel himself working towards something very, very rash. Stupid, even. Martin would never go for it. “Let me do it for you.” He touched his bony shoulder. “Let me pack those boxes. Let me _in_.”

 

Martin shook his head, turning away. He obviously intended to shut Douglas out completely. “Why do you care? I don’t understand what you get out of this.” He flushed. “I mean, I understand that we’re friends, but I’ve taken over the better part of your life _and_ your job.  

 

“Quite a lot, actually. Martin, even I am surprised by this, but you have become very important to me. Moreso than even _I_ anticipated. Which is why I’m not teasing you, or making fun, or whatever else you might think when I ask: will you be my Sentinel?”

 

It wouldn’t be that difficult. It was also true that they already had the weakest level of bond possible. After much physical contact and cooperation, they were now bonded at the lowest level. If they stayed on this path, they would reach the spiritual bond possibly within a year. Constant physical contact and it could be only a few months.

 

But what Douglas wanted wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about having the Sentinel to your Guide. It was about trust and a remarkable connection with someone with which you shared interests and more. Douglas trusted Martin. He _liked_ Martin. He would go as far as to say that he was fond of him. Perhaps even infatuated, if he admitted it to himself.

 

Martin’s head turned so fast he was sure he heard a snap. His mouth opened and closed silently, trying to process the information. “There’s no rush,” Douglas assured. “I just thought…” He really hadn’t been thinking. “Bugger all, actually. I’d just really rather not lose you.”

 

Douglas waited a few more nerve-racking seconds, resisting the urge to wring his hands. He was no fawning teenager; he was a grown adult who could handle a little rejection if it came down to it.

 

“You have me,” Martin rasped, no more than a whisper.

 

“What?”

 

“You have me,” he repeated, louder now. “I—I never thought I would need a Guide. To be honest,” he let out a laugh, “I’m still not convinced. But if it had to be anyone, I think it would be you. Maybe I can—try.”  

 

To say Martin was shocked would be a severe understatement. All this talk of Guide this, Guide that; he would have never imagined that Douglas would choose _him_.

 

“We’re emotionally compromised right now,” Martin continued, beginning to babble as he tended to do when he was incredibly nervous. “By tomorrow you might feel differently. You might not want me.”

 

“Martin, you know by now that—”

 

“Listen to me! Please.” He took a deep breath. “By tomorrow you might not feel this way. However, I think...I think you have a point. I can’t do this on my own, can I?” The question was rhetorical, but Douglas answered anyway.

 

“I’m not trying to force you, Martin. If you think of me as a last resort…”

 

“Douglas.” Martin stood up from the sofa and approached the Guide with all the caution of one approaching an animal. Douglas reflected on how their situations had switched so easily.

 

Martin cupped his face with both hands, unsure and shivering with anticipation. Douglas was wise enough to know that he should close his eyes and let Martin come to him of his own volition, but he hadn’t ever been very good at listening to his instincts. His hands reached out, taking Martin’s head in hands, and he kissed him.

 

Their mouths slid together, Martin going pliant under him. Douglas rumbled a groan and pressed against him more firmly, aware that there was a new, unfamiliar feeling settling in his stomach. Martin was inexperienced, his fingers slipping into Douglas’ hair with a hesitance that he found adorable, and his kisses were far too quick and nervous; however, it was the best thing he’d ever felt since—well, for a very long time.

 

Douglas buried his fingers into Martin’s hair, feeling alive for the first time in ages when Martin responded with a shocked moan. As a Sentinel struggling with his powers of sense, he must have felt phenomenal. Or frightened. Douglas pulled back to make sure it wasn’t the latter, and was rewarded with a Martin whose cheeks were flushed, lips wet.

 

He looked so rumbled that Douglas wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, so he did. He kissed Martin again, and then again, and once more, until all that was left of the two of them was the frantic press of lips and shared breaths. When he thought they’d had enough, dizzy in far too many ways, Douglas swiped his thumb across Martin’s lip and smiled.

 

“Hello,” he said.

 

“Martin’s smile was tentative, but genuine. Brilliant. “Hi.”

 

He had a feeling they were going to be all right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a lot of words, so excuse any glaring mistakes. Thank you! And Moony, my dear, I promised porn, but it didn't feel right here. If you want an epilogue (if you don't hate me) I will totally write one.


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